


not like before

by Okumen



Category: Parasol Protectorate - Gail Carriger
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okumen/pseuds/Okumen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man had been an artist, and an amazing one at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not like before

Ambose sat silent on the edge of the bed, eyes on the sleeping form of the werewolf. The man lay on his stomach, cheek and forehead cushioned by an arm, rather than by his actual pillows, which he wasn't even using at the moment. 

It was a bit of an undignified sleeping position, but the wolf still managed to look elegant about it, hair splayed out around him, out of its customary tail, and lips slightly parted. He didn't snore, but Ambrose remembered that he did, some times. Back when he was human, and before he had chosen to become a werewolf. 

He remembered, as he traced a finger along Channing's jaw bone, how warm he had been then. How alive.

He remembered the scent of fresh blood and dust, and he remembered the feeling of blood coursing through veins when he pressed a kiss to the pulse at his wrist.

A lot of things had changed since before.

He remembered sitting in Channing's atelier, watching the man forget all about the passing of time, as he worked on a sculpture.

The man had been an artist, and an amazing one at that. But now, he never picked up his tools. Ambrose had never even so much as seen the man throw a single glance at a statue, and it was sad.

Perhaps he didn't like being reminded of the piece of himself that he had left behind upon turning, all those years back.

He retracted his hand, only to brush some strands of blond locks out of his face. He then leaned back against the heavy wooden head board, and settled for only looking, until sunset came and he could take his leave.

Channing would know he had been there, he didn't doubt, but he had not come to be faced with words.

Only memories, which had since long slipped through his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't let me write when I'm half asleep? Idk really.


End file.
